"Stop," Scott shouted frantically into his radio. "Get that crate back to the jet. Get it out of the pit. Back to the jet. It's too late. Hurry. Hurry!"
For a single astounded moment the men paused. Then, sweeping the rubble from the crate, they fumbled it toward the surface of the pit.
Scott leaped down among them. Pushed. "They're going to trap us." The crate struck on the pit's edge. Scott seized one end, forced it up over. "Grab that other end, Masters. Move, man. Don't argue. Move!"
Staggering over the uneven ground, they lurched toward the jet.
"I think you ought to rest for a moment." It was the cool voice of Randell, who stepped from the darkness with a blaster turned full on them.
Crewmen from the Kastil poured from among the rocks. Their blasters swung a menacing ring about Scott and his men.
"Step back away from the crate." Randell stepped forward, tapped his blaster against the side of the box. "Now what do we have here."
"Keep away from that," Scott snarled. "That's property of the Bertha."
"Is it?" Randell turned carelessly to his men. "Property of the Bertha," he drawled. "Well, we'd better have a look at it now. To make sure you haven't accidentally salvaged some of the Kastil's equipment. Oh, quite by accident, I understand."
He began to loosen the screw-clamps of the lid.